


Sex Holiday Manners

by agirlsname



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Always1895 Johnlock Fic Prompt Challenge, Bus Sex, Egypt, Elevator Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Holidays, Honeymoon, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 11:13:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15363369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname
Summary: There was this interview where Martin Freeman said he's been "hand-pulled in an elevator".Well, now John Watson has, too.





	Sex Holiday Manners

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the July #Always1895 fic prompt challenge: Johnlock on holiday.
> 
> As always, thank you Akhenaten's Mummy for the beta!
> 
> Also big thanks to [englandwouldfalljohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn) for being a sounding board and giving me the piece of dialogue that got me started:  
>  _"Egypt?"  
>  "Egypt?"  
> "Have you ever been?"  
> "No"  
> "It's settled then!"_
> 
> (Hello, Mum. You don't have to read this one.)

“Come on, this is the next stop.” John waves a hand in front of Sherlock's apathetic stare. “ _Sherlock!_ ”

Sherlock groans and tips his head back against the headrest on his seat. “Bored.”

“I know you're bored, but don't you think it'll be even more boring staying back here all alone?”

“Here I can at least be without that insipid guide and his icing-sugar-stained sleeve with the-”

“Yes, yes, I know, he has a secret kid in Cairo.” John glances out the bus window to make sure the guide is still busy counting in the tourists. “Come on, we might as well go while we're here – can't go to Egypt without visiting the Valley of the Kings.”

“What does it matter?”

“It's interesting. Why else did you want to come here?”

Sherlock scowls at him. “I never  _wanted_  to come here.”

“What, yes you did! I asked you if you'd ever been in Egypt, and you said no-”

“Yes, and then you said,  _it's settled then!_ ”

John stares at him. “Well why didn't you tell me you didn't want to? It's our  _honeymoon!_ ”

“Exactly!”

“Gentlemen?” the guide asks from the bus door. “It's time to get going.”

“We'll be right there”, John smiles tightly.

“You were excited”, Sherlock says once the guide is gone. “It's all the same to me, because I want to go where you want to go. Surely you inferred that much from my vows?”

He has that innocently indignant look on his face, the one that means he doesn't know he's said something sweet. John's smile goes soft when he leans down to kiss him.

“But it doesn't mean I'll behave”, Sherlock says against his lips.

John chuckles. “I'd never expect you to behave, Sherlock Watson-Holmes.”

***

The sun is setting over the desert. The colours flashing outside the bus window dissipate, settling into the darkening turquoise of the sky, the sharp black contours of the hills, and the warm gold of the last sun glow just below the ridges.

The lights in the bus are low, the murmur of voices hushing as it gets darker outside. John watches the evening sky while Sherlock's fingers sort meticulously through his hair, the touch making John calm and satisfied at the end of the long day. When the darkness outside hides everything but rough ridge shapes, John sighs in contentment and turns his head.

“Hello, you”, he says, his voice soft enough to be heard only by his husband. “Find anything interesting?”

“Yes”, Sherlock says gravely, slipping his right hand out of John's hair to cup his neck. “Two days in this climate is sufficient for your hair to start bleaching in the sun.”

Something warm and achy swells in the centre of John's chest, and for a moment he looks at Sherlock through the bluish night-lights of the bus that give his pale skin a secretive sheen. When John leans in for a kiss, Sherlock's other hand slides down to his breastbone to cover that aching warmth inside.

John means to keep the kiss short, but at this point, he really should have learned that that sort of plan never works with Sherlock. Sherlock's mouth is tender and attentive, keeping the touch light so that when he parts his lips, a thrill goes through John with all that he wants and almost has.

The kiss deepens slowly. The scent of Sherlock's air makes John forget there is anything at all in the world other than this beautiful man. He is warm and endlessly soft under John's lips, so very present and alive though there is barely a breath to be heard over the murmur of the engine. The unreal night light creates a spell that makes John want to hold still to stay in it; in the quietness, the stillness that allows them to be all alone at the back of the bus.

Sherlock's hands are carefully moving; one fingering delicately on John's hot neck to send sparks skittering down his back, one stroking up and down his chest. When his fingers brush John's nipple through his white t-shirt, a delicious shudder goes through John to redirect his blood flow.

He breaks away from the kiss, glancing around them. They have the seats farthest back in the bus, and there is no one near them – perks of having a husband who intimidates everyone. The bus is big and relatively empty, with the nearest people four seats ahead. They could easily turn their heads, though, and get a good look at the newly-weds in the back.

Before John can make a decision about the sanity of this, Sherlock's humid breath is on his throat. John's head falls against the backrest when Sherlock presses slow kisses to his skin, the tip of his tongue coming out to taste the salt now and then. John is half-hard before he consciously realised it would happen, and he already feels too good to stop it. He keeps his laboured breaths quiet, hands fumbling to find a part of Sherlock to touch in their awkward side-by-side position. Reading his mind, Sherlock strokes his hand across John's belly just above the seatbelt, reaching down to unfasten it. He grabs John's thighs, lifting them to rest across his lap. John leans back into the corner of his seat, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's head when he keeps mouthing at John's neckline.

At the next brush of fingers over his nipple, John has to stifle a moan.

“Hello, Doctor Watson-Holmes”, Sherlock breathes across his lips before kissing him again, deeper this time. His caresses over John's breast can't be called an accident now.

“Sherlock”, John whispers, glancing at the back of the heads before them. “Someone will see.”

“If they turn around. Which they won't, as long as you're quiet.”

John looks at him, just far away enough to be able to focus on John's face. His eyes look ice-blue in the strange lighting. They watch John intently as if trying to take him apart, as if he's the only thing in the world worth the effort. Having this gaze directed at him is a high that never dulls.

John slides his fingers lightly through Sherlock's hair, revelling in the way his eyelids flutter. “Let's just keep it like this until the hotel, yeah?”

“Of course”, Sherlock says, moving in to kiss him again. John tries to keep the kisses shallow, but the hum of the engine is low and hypnotic, and Sherlock is delicious in his thin summer shirt, the skin of his neck slightly sticky with old sweat. John can't help but scrape his nails over Sherlock's scalp the way he enjoys, and it spurs Sherlock on until his hand finds its way in under John's shirt.

John slides down in his seat and further into Sherlock's lap, trying to lower his head so his face can't be seen behind the backrest before him, trying to look as if he's taking a nap. He suspects he looks nothing like a man sleeping, though, when Sherlock strokes his bare skin. The t-shirt rides up further and further on his chest, until Sherlock can duck his head and swipe his tongue over John's nipple. John hisses and grabs Sherlock's hair to push him away, but ends up clutching him closer.

Sherlock's silent breathing is fast against John's bare chest and John can't think straight. A large hand clutches John's hip, and it's almost torture, having his hand so close. John wriggles in his seat, trying to get closer to Sherlock somehow – these seats are bloody inconvenient when he needs to touch his husband  _everywhe_ _re_. His thigh comes to rest above Sherlock's crotch, and Sherlock's hips twitch upwards helplessly, a tiny sound in the back of his throat.

“How far to the hotel?” John whispers unsteadily, his voice breaking through the last word in a pathetic little whine. He forgets to wait for an answer when Sherlock moves on to his other nipple and sucks.

John is fully hard in his trousers and he has no idea of how long he has to wait. His pelvis moves desperately, but there's no friction to meet him, only Sherlock's hand slipping back to cup his arse.

“Stop”, John gasps, blindly yanking his shirt back down, fighting not to pant too loudly. Sherlock removes his hand to lay it against the side of John's face.

“I love you”, he whispers, and John watches his otherworldly face; his eyes are closed in bliss, the lashes black against his bluish skin when he moves closer for a kiss.

It's impossible to resist. Sherlock is right there, and John loves him so much that nothing else matters, especially not a bus full of boring tourists. No matter how he tries to keep it innocent, every little movement Sherlock makes is so erotic that John could nearly explode in his pants without ever being touched.

John covers Sherlock's hand on his cheek, meaning simply to hold on to him. But Sherlock's hand slowly, slowly slips down across his body, and John isn't sure if it's Sherlock moving or John guiding his hand. Every inch they move makes John pulse, his muscles winding up and clenching. They don't stop until Sherlock's palm rests lightly over John's clothed erection, and John's mouth falls wide open. He has to stop breathing to make sure he won't groan. Sherlock isn't breathing either, his equally gaping mouth hanging reverently still above John's.

Even the first, unmoving, feather-light touch builds John's arousal impossibly fast, because he can't, and he shouldn't, and he needs to stop and he needs  _more_. When Sherlock's hand starts moving minutely, and the pressure is increasing, and John isn't sure whether they're now actually having sex on a bus, he chokes out: “Jesus, Sherlock, we can't do this.”

Sherlock puts his lush lips against John's ear. “Why?” he breathes, and John writhes at the realisation that Sherlock is ready to finish this here and now.

“'Cause I can't keep quiet”, John whimpers, clamping his mouth shut with a wary look at the turned-away heads. No one seems to have heard him – yet.

“Hmmmm.” Sherlock hums into the skin below John's ear, stilling his hand but not removing it. “We will just have to wait, then.”

John tries to catch his breath, but he keeps twitching against Sherlock's palm. The pleasure doesn't lessen, instead it keeps building, and soon his pelvis is moving again. Sherlock's hand tightens, almost imperceptibly at first.

“I'm trying, John”, he whispers unevenly. “I just can't keep my hands off you.”

“Christ, then don't”, John chokes out, pressing his pelvis firmly into Sherlock's hand.

When the bus finally pulls up outside their hotel, John is damn near out of his mind. The main lights in the bus flicker on and John sits up in his seat, glancing at his dishevelled reflection in the black window. Sherlock blinks in confusion, his gorgeous lips parted around his panting breaths, and John has to look away not to push Sherlock's head into his lap. They wait until everyone has gone off the bus – all these ruddy people, why are they there? – then they rise, John clutching his jumper in front of him and Sherlock his jacket. The twenty steps to the hotel entrance are longer than the width of London.

The lobby is empty, only a receptionist to witness their uncomfortable gait as they cross to the lifts. Sherlock slams the call button, and John stares at the ceiling, praying to God to cut the time until he has Sherlock in private, if only by a handful of seconds.

One lift dings, and the elegant doors slide open.

While the doors are still closing behind them, John finds himself pressed up against the back wall. Sherlock's mouth attacks John's so fiercely that he nearly doesn't notice his fly being undone, until Sherlock's hand  _finally_  closes around his bare, taut skin. John tries to break away for an embarrassingly loud moan, but Sherlock hungrily swallows it with his hot mouth. His hand moves determinedly over John's cock, and John realises with a shock that he's about to come.

“Sherlock”, he whines, his legs starting to give out. Sherlock presses against him even harder to hold him upright. He is hard as steel against John's waist, and John's hands wander to grab his arse and pull him in closer. “What if someone-” he pants, his head falling hard against the wall behind him when Sherlock's grip tightens.

He can't pay attention to the lift moving, can't even hear the sound of the motor, and he has no concept of how long they've been in here. Those doors could open to their floor at any time – or to pick up another person.

“I've got you”, Sherlock murmurs, pressing his open mouth messily to John's cheek. His words really mean nothing if they are caught, but are strangely reassuring anyway, and John lets go. He clings even harder to Sherlock's arse when he starts to moan. There's no stopping it now. Sherlock whimpers into his skin, and John comes with a shout.

He's still coming when Sherlock suddenly withdraws his hand, zipping John's fly, and half a second later, there's a ding and the doors slide open. John registers that there's a person standing there and quickly bends down to hide his face, snatching the jumper and the jacket which must have fallen to the floor at some point. When he straightens, Sherlock has already shoved past the woman. John is careful not to meet her eyes when he enters the corridor, wondering how obvious his arousal blush is.

Sherlock's hands are trembling when he fumbles for his key card, not managing to open the door before John gets there. John takes the card from him, and Sherlock stumbles when the door falls open under his weight. John barely has time to close it behind them before Sherlock pushes at his shoulders, and the key card clatters to the floor when John gets on his knees and unzips Sherlock's trousers. He swallows Sherlock down, and a nearly agonised groan sounds in the pitch black of their hotel room.

***

The room is dark, the only sources of light being the streetlights, cars and neon signs from the city below. They lie in bed together, watching the busy Cairo night. John feels fresh and sober after their much-needed shower, and Sherlock's back is smooth and dry against the front of his body, his hair a fluffy mess from the blow-dryer. There's something about lying with Sherlock completely naked and clean, soft cock resting against Sherlock's back, that's more intimate than sex.

“I think it's beautiful.” John's lips rest on Sherlock's neck even as he speaks.

“Yes.” Sherlock's voice is that precious liquid that can only be heard in the dark, when he's sated and calm.

“I like being on holiday with you”, John sighs, nipping lightly at Sherlock's neck. “Even though you can't behave.”

Sherlock scoffs. “I'm behaving perfectly for a sex holiday, John.”

John giggles sleepily, muffling it with a kiss to a vertebra. Sherlock has a point.

“Next time, you choose where we go.”

“Don't feel bad for me, John, I told you. I want to go where you want to go. It provides me with more data about you.” John tightens his arms, and Sherlock contentedly wriggles back into him. “Also, it's a sex holiday. It doesn't matter  _where_  we go.”

“As long as it's the two of us”, John mumbles, pouring the words into Sherlock's skin smelling faintly of soap.

Sherlock laces their fingers together over his chest.

John falls asleep with three words audible in his breath.


End file.
